Sylar, half-hunched over the table, loosens his grip on its edge as he slowly raises his head.
There's nothing to see, but he looks all the same: at the seamless changes, the ripple from one world to the next. It's like trying to understand a painting after you've gone blind. He's only half-listening to Candice.
(He's heard it before, anyway. He thinks. The memory is smudged and disjointed when he tries to recall it.)
Eventually, Sylar leans his head to the right, eyes narrowing a fraction in clear interest.
If she claims that most of it was his doing, after all...that leaves some of it that wasn't.
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There's nothing to see, but he looks all the same: at the seamless changes, the ripple from one world to the next. It's like trying to understand a painting after you've gone blind. He's only half-listening to Candice.
(He's heard it before, anyway. He thinks. The memory is smudged and disjointed when he tries to recall it.)
Eventually, Sylar leans his head to the right, eyes narrowing a fraction in clear interest.
If she claims that most of it was his doing, after all...that leaves some of it that wasn't.